Of the Nameless
by Evenly-Baked-Avatar
Summary: The one-armed girl and the boy with red eyes. What a lovely pair they made. Xanxus X OC
1. Chapter 1: Naomi

**Of the Nameless**

 **Chapter One:** Naomi

* * *

She had always seen him as strong. Glaring red eyes, slicing through the weaker wills around them. Effortlessly. And she had always admired this about him. But, although he had strength, he had yet to gain tact, ears to pick up rhythm, to pick up rhyme that other people, that their environment, that _everything_ carried.

People had always been fascinating to her. Since she was small, she longed to pick them apart. What made them tick, she would ask herself?

It was easy to see what made Xanxus tick, when every little thing seemed to irritate him. But the calm after the rage, somehow, someway, that seemed to hold more beauty than the rage that flamed so beautifully.

She had always been a curious child, and so she did as observers do. She stayed and watched when her interest piqued, and had remained by his side for years since (even those years she thought he had changed, and had been burned in retribution when he reminded her _he had not_ ).

The one-armed girl and the boy with red eyes.

What a lovely fucking pair they made.

* * *

She lay on the river bank, the wound on her arm - no. What remained of her arm (the only one she had been born with), bleeding freely. Sand crunched beneath her skull as she shifted it, looking at what remained.

But she did not cry. Simply, she was not the type.

But when she turned her head to face the sky (feeling a pang when doing so, and dearly she wanted arms, just to let them hover on the space below her stomach), curiously, she met of a pair of softened, elderly eyes.

And she closed her eyes, and she was home.

* * *

Ileana had never been a mother to her. There was no use in lying, fibbing some sob story of why she should care. But the woman was Xanxus's mother. And she cared about Xanxus, and Xanxus cared for his mother and what little sanity she had left.

And so, through this logic, she helped care for Ileana. And through stealing medicine for Xanxus's mother, her job being to knock the power out while Xanxus took what he needed in that time of confusion, she first discovered her love of mechanics, machinery, and the very thing that powered it;

When electricity first raced momentarily through her hand, via the uncovered wires of the dismayed utility box, she knew, she knew, _she knew_. She stared at her only hand in amazement as this pain faded ever so quickly, and it was that moment that her addiction began.

And even then, ideas whirled in her mind, of intermingling her wonder of electricity and her interest in the human body together.

She supposed she had Ileana to thank for this.

* * *

Luana had always been kind to her, having found the sixteen year old nearly dying (with no arms, one stump bleeding out) on the bank of a river. Although having no children herself, she had considered herself a mother, always.

But having no ties, she was a traveler, a wanderer by her own definition. But looking at this young girl, eyes darting and suspicious, even glaring at the elderly woman who saved her from death,

perhaps now Luana had a reason to settle.

* * *

"Yo, yo, yo, Baby, where we getting on that info, huh?"

"Told you not to call me Baby, Satoshi," the girl clicked her tongue, eyes not turning from the multiple screens in front of her. He laughed in response, throwing his head back, causing his afro to bounce lightly. He approached, putting an arm on the back of her chair and leaning forward.

"You got the stuff, Hot Mama?"

Her eyes snapped to his, cutting coldly.

"Worse." Another laugh, and he continued, muttering a quick,

"Accurate though," before continuing, "But come on, girl, I didn't hire you to sit around and look pretty."

"Didn't you though," she said smoothly, reaching to grab the paper that just printed (still warm) from the machine next to her, "Or am I not the best damn thing with computers in the area?"

"In the world, Baby," Satoshi called with a grin, taking the information, landing a kiss on the top of her head, and then exiting the room all in a few swift movements.

The girl scoffed, being left alone. Another scoff for good measure, and she turned her mechanical arms back to the project at hand:

engineering herself new arms.

(These were far too unresponsive for her taste, and nowhere as efficient as her own design could be)

* * *

The woman let out ragged breaths, reaching forward to pull herself from the rubble both her legs were caught - no, both her legs were _crushed_ under. Truly, they would be of no use, even if she did manage to pull herself out of this.

But wasn't it just human nature, to persist in hopelessness?

Ayize screamed out again, and fell forward completely. In this moment of calm after pain, her lips met the dirt, as if kissing it. Another ragged breath, and she looked up, finding a pair of heels in her line of sight. Trembling, she followed the smooth legs up,

seeing a beautiful woman, put together flawlessly. Strangely, even in the aftermath of battle and in the midst of destruction (so freshly done), she wore an evening gown, pristine and fitting, with a large fur coat draped across her shoulders. Long tresses of platinum pink hair waterfalled from her head, and it shifted as she titled it, the woman looking down at her in cold amusement, curiosity untouched by emotion or empathy.

Still with both arms crossed, the stranger talked down to Ayize (still with her legs trapped under rubble, the ringing of war still in her ears).

"You interested," the woman said, her voice smooth and yet mechanical somehow, "in getting new legs?"

(Later, Alize would view this woman as an angel, even with the awareness that Lucifer was once in heaven as well)

* * *

She stood, breathing heavily, and spattered in blood. Adorned in lingerie, seen openly with the choice of wearing a large fur coat only on her shoulders (that too, splattered with the blood of the men she now stood above, elevated in stilettos), she held two guns, still seemingly steaming from the onslaught that had occurred moments before they entered the room.

Her hair was long now, and dyed a pastel pink, billowing past her shoulders. Her skin, a mixture of darks and browns, but it was hard to pick a hue when it was covered in red.

But her smile was seamless when she saw him, his second in command right at his heals. Red eyes took in all these components in seconds and yet the first thing he asked was:

"Since when do you have two fucking arms, huh?"

And her grin barely tightened and then relaxed into a hum. She dropped the guns to the ground effortlessly, carelessly (as if she didn't even need them), and her footsteps clicked as she made her way to the liquor cabinet and then the desk. She lifted the only bottle she grabbed to her lips, taking a drink that lasted exactly seven seconds (he made sure to count), before separating glass from her lips with a sigh, and placing the bottle down with a clink.

"Well fuck," she breathed out, meeting his eyes once more, "me gently, after eight fucking years and that's all I get. I have two arms because you made me lose the only one I was fucking born with. Now fuck off and sit your ass down. We," she said, her eyes never leaving Xanxus's,

"Have a lot to catch up on."

* * *

 _AN:_

 _I'm not going to get into the whole "I shouldn't be doing this spill". But as of now, my other docs are on another computer, and I wanted to get this out to test the waters._

 _I'm definitely going to messing with timelines of things in this, so this chapter is definitely supposed to be confusing. I want to set this up looking through the Main Character's eyes (who will remain nameless throughout the story), and apply their fractured view to the narrative. I want to say that this won't be that long, but that's what I said with WHMTH._

 _For now, I'm referring to the main character as **Baby**. Kind of a dirty dancing reference if you will._

 _If you enjoyed my fic What Her Mother Taught Her, then you'll probably enjoy this one as well. And if you enjoy this kind of writing (a darker take on the KHR world and such), then you should check out What Her Mother Taught Her!_

 _Remember to review and let me know what you guys think!_


	2. Chapter 2: Ayize

**Of the Nameless**

 **Chapter 2:** Ayize

* * *

Superbi Squalo evaluated the woman who leaned against the opposing side of the door. Both were standing patiently, eyes on the wall in front of them and waiting on the closed door to open (as second hands do, as second hands do, with the upmost loyalty)

(and in matters of loyalty these two would could never be doubted)

He reviewed her deep, dark skin, flawless and unmarred aside from the prominent tattoo on her face, proudly displaying what looked to be flowers framing a roman numeral (V to be exact) on her right cheek. Her attire seemed to mirror that of her boss's, which frankly meant she was lacking clothing and showed off her skin, wearing only a leotard and a fur coat, far shorter than the long and large coat her boss wore.

(which was now covered in the blood of the men in the room behind them. Briefly, Squalo wondered if that would be an annoyance to his boss. No, he recalled, remembering the look in Xanxus's eyes upon seeing her; nothing could distract his boss upon seeing her again)

But perhaps the most interesting attribute about this woman was her prosthetic legs;

Silver and equipped with a wicked set of blades. What looked to be a matching, hand-held set lay at rest on her hips, and Squalo could only simply wonder at her technique for fighting and shift his own prosthetic (also equipped with a sword) in excitement at the prospect of engaging with someone so intriguing.

But that, he decided as the door between them open,

Would have to wait for another time. The two right-hands easily fell into step behind their respective bosses. Squalo narrowed his eyes, taking in his own boss's mood as Ayize did the same with hers;

Interesting. He hadn't seen Xanxus this apprehensive since he discovered his true heritage. And even then?

Never had he seen his boss with such gentleness in his fingers as he held his guns.

* * *

Ayize tapped her prosthetic against the wall she was leaning against, the metallic blade creating a tinkling effect against the metal of the wall. Whirs of machinery intermingled with this, and Ayize turned her head, looking into the open door and into her boss's work space.

A moment, and Ayize pushed herself from the wall, prosthetics clinking as she neared her boss, and her current subject. The woman was shaking still, and Ayize could tell that her quivering hands yearned to caress her face,

Or at least she space where her face used to be. True, the Frenchwoman retained a pristine pair of ruby lips, a distinct chin, but her defined cheekbones decayed to dismayed skin beyond repair. At least, beyond organic repair.

But her boss always had a knack in intermixing mechanical and organic materials. A talent you could call it.

(an obsession others would say)

If her boss had not found this woman, if her boss had wasted even seconds in beginning the operation? The acid used on this woman surely would have reached far beyond her face and eyes, and killed the woman in seconds.

But her boss was all about second chances. Ayize was proof of that.

Taking those thrown aside and giving them means to a greater purpose. A new life with new enhancements. A symbol to wear proudly.

(a family)

That's what her boss had given her.

And so it was only fitting that Ayize would give her life back. It was, truly, the least she could so.

* * *

"I love it," Kitten said, practically bouncing off the table she had been laying on, both buns on top of her head mimicking this movement, "so freaking much!"

She spun around the room and then came to a stop, placing hand on her bared stomach, now proudly displaying flowers framing the roman numeral of 17. She sent a dazzling smile to her boss, who was placidly storing her tools.

The woman reached up, allowing her platinum purple hair (dark roots now beginning to show, much to her annoyance, something she made a note to remedy) to cascade down her back as she stood.

"Stomach, huh," Ayize noted, walking into the room with Carmilla, "Fitting."

"I almost went with face," Kitten bubbled, bouncing up to hug Ayize, an act which the older woman accepted easily, "But, I figured this was better for me, you know? Thanks again, Boss!" the girl said again, sending another dazzling smile.

Kitten blinked however, considering. Separating herself from Ayize, she approached her boss, who allowed Kitten to inspect her. Her boss remained standing, with hand on hip momentarily, before becoming bored and plopping down into her chair, swiveling to face the many screens that hung above her desk. She began typing, in an oddly lazy but swift and fluent motion, ignoring her subordinates as they made themselves comfortable in her workspace.

"Where's boss's tattoo though?" Kitten asked, not having seen a hint of it upon her inspection, despite her boss's typical, scandalous clothing choices.

A pause, and their leader turned slightly to Kitten, patting her covered stomach as a silent response before returning to her typing.

"I wear mine proudly, like Ayize," Carmilla said proudly, referring to the space between her breasts, revealed by the low cut of her cat suit.

"I thought you just wanted to look like a whore."

All eight of the eyes of Carmilla's mask (hardwired and attached to her head, only revealing the bottom half of her face, a pristine set of ruby lips, and a defined chin), snapped to Kitten in irritation. Elegantly, her hand went to the rifle on her back, and Kitten reflected this, her hand going to hover over her left arm, ready to type into the screen embedded into it.

"Kitten," came the warning voice of their boss. Brown eyes flickered from the screens to their youngest member.

"What did I say about using those terms."

"Sorry, Boss," Kitten said, looking genuinely ashamed.

Carmilla huffed, retrieving her rifle anyway. The Frenchwoman, however, went to the window instead of the door, opening it before turning to her boss.

"I'm going to check the perimeter," Carmilla pronounced simply before jumping out the window. Their boss hummed in response, before her attention turned back to Kitten. She frowned, seeing the girl's still-sad state.

"Ayize."

"Yes."

"Take Kitten out to get some new clothes." Kitten looked up, immediately brightening at this. Her boss gave a sultry smile, and a wink:

"I want her to be well equipped to show off my symbol. She's officially one of mine now, after all."

* * *

"God fucking shit!"

Ayize frowned, watching as her boss threw down the cell phone in frustration before stomping it violently with her heel,

"Fucking dammit, piece of fuck!"

Ayize barely winced, looking to the side as her boss grabbed a gun, and turned to shoot the poor piece of frail technology multiple times. She seethed and spat at it before completely disregarding the gun, heels clicking as she went to her desk, slamming into her chair and rolling to a separate work space,

Picking up her tools and opening a panel on her right arm, beginning to furiously tinker with it.

Ayize sighed, and began her mental timer. Half an hour later, she sat on the table her boss was calmly working at. Only then, did Ayize speak, staring down at the prosthetic legs her boss had made and designed for Ayize all those years ago.

"Why do you let him talk to you like that, boss?" she asked simply. Brown eyes snapped to Ayize, and calmly, her boss put down her tools. She closed the panel of her arm, and then began moving and bending it, checking it's calibrations.

"He," she said after a while, a strange, distant look in her eyes (always, when she talked about things of this nature), "helped me when I needed work. Bastard gave me my start, so I guess I'm obligated and all that shit," she said with an annoyed scrunch of her nose.

Her face softened, however, thinking of someone else.

(and Ayize softened as well, placing a hand on her boss's, and feeling the coldness of it. She knew, _she knew_ who her boss was thinking of)

"But yeah, back then? I needed all the fucking help I could get."

* * *

Ayize flipped through the air, moving her legs effortless and easily, slicing the throats of the men around her with her altered prosthetics. Arcs of blood blossomed from their throats, and Ayize landed on the railing, easily balancing and looking down at the scene of blood around her. A chandelier hung before her, and she allowed herself to admire her reflection, multiplied plentifully in the small glass motifs of the chandelier, noting as always the elegance of her legs and weapons she held in her hands,

Thin blades (so easily wiped clean of the blood she spilled) nearly glimmered in the light of chandelier, basking the now burgundy stained staircases in light. Ayize reviewed the bodies she left in entrance of the mansion once more before moving on to her actually target, moving swiftly and meeting every adversary she meets with the slick and slicing metal of either her swords or her prosthetics.

Easily, she reached her goal, slicing through the reinforced door with the aid of her own lightning flames.

"Recognize this symbol?" she asked the man inside, once she had him pinned with her swords, now sticking elegantly from his red soaked shoulders. Proudly, she turned her cheek, displaying her tattoo.

His frightened eyes were already fading, but Ayize noted the glimmer of recognition.

"You killed a girl with a tattoo like this. Remember?" she told him, tutting gently and lifting his chin up. "And you know what you did when you killed her? You fucked up. Because that girl was one of us. And when you mess with one of us? Well…" she trailed of, giving a soft smile.

"You know our boss is one of damn best informants, yes?" she told him, still crouched on his level. She smiled softly once more before rising, walking to the desk nearby. "Noticed how your entire operation slowly fell apart, despite your best efforts?" Ayize asked, rather distantly as she picked up a picture of what looked to be the man's family. Gently, she set the frame down, looking at the other contents of the desk instead.

"That's what happens when you go after one of us. When you kill one of her own," Ayize said, rather sadly. "I knew her too. Cute. Kind. Had one more leg over me though," she added with a brighter smile.

"But," Ayize said, looking back to the man who was slowly but surely bleeding out, "I suppose it's fortunate. These legs she gave me are great at beheading, after all."

She took a few steps back, mentally measuring the distance.

"Smile," Ayize said, titling her head and doing the action herself, "My boss loves pretty pictures."

* * *

Ayize stood by her boss's side, not knowing what to do in such as unnatural situation. Her boss remained kneeling, holding – no, cradling the body they had found minutes earlier. Her boss shivered once, and momentarily, Ayize thought it was out of grief.

No, she was mistaken Ayize realized as her boss rose, gently setting the body down, mechanical fingers lingering on the tattoo on the woman's wrist (flowers encasing the roman numeral of 8) before rising,

Her eyes, expression, face entirely livid with rage.

"They're dead," she muttered, "fucking all of them. All of them are fucking dead and I will personally," she spat, storming beyond Ayize, "drag them down to Hell, and then further."

Ayize watching as her boss walked off, no doubt pristinely planning the demise of those who killed this woman. Ayize turned back the body, gently kneeling to close the eyes of a woman she never had the honor of knowing. But,

Ayize rose to follow her boss faithfully, knowing that she took care of her own,

And Ayize would gladly aid her.

* * *

"What," her boss said with a smile, gently tucking a strand of pastel blue hair behind her ear, "a beautiful picture. Smiling and everything," she said before handing the polaroid back to Ayize.

"He followed instructions well," Ayize commented, moving to the large board in the common room they were now standing in.

Gently, Ayize moved another picture upward, tacking the photo of the head of the man beneath it, before allowing it to be covered. Her boss came to stand by her side, Ayize easily towering over her.

Gently, she reached up to touch the picture of the smiling girl that now covered the man that killed her. Ayize frowned, knowing that her boss did not truly feel the texture of the photo.

(but her boss wanted to, yearned to, Ayize knew, she knew, her boss yearned to _feel_ )

"A beheading for a beheading," her boss muttered, before brown eyes wandered to the other pictures on their board, many of smiling woman, occasionally of men and others (some with their tattoos displayed prominently on the necks and faces, like Ayize, others their tattoos not visible in the pictures at all).

And if you were observant enough, Ayize knew, you would notice that under each and every picture was another, showing their killer in the same state of their victims corpses. Of Ayize's friends.

Those that her boss has taken under her, and in many cases has sworn to protect,

And failed.

(but damn, if those bastards did not pay for taking what was hers)

* * *

Ayize looked up from her evaluation of Surperbi Squalo (comparing him now to what her boss relayed to her, what he was like when he was younger and how he presents himself now), and looked to the opening door between them,

Easily falling into step behind her boss, faithfully. Her head tilted, however, and her eyes barely narrowed, noticing something off about her boss.

Never had Ayize seen her this apprehensive. No, Ayize realized, not apprehension:

Ayize had never seen her boss so frightened

* * *

 _AN:_

 _I haven't even seen either of the Kingsman Movies, but I fucking love Gazelle's weapons. And so when I think of simply, elegant weaponized prosthetics for a character, of course I'm going to give her what's basically swords for legs. And it's a great parallel of sorts to Squalo._

 _As for the tattoo, I'll put up a link to the designs on my profile right after posting this._

 _Thanks for all the reviews and favorites!_

 ** _Review Response:_**

 _ **Mira:** Here's more! Hope you enjoy and thanks for the review~_

 _ **Guest:** Glad you like it and hope you keep enjoying it! Thanks for the review! _

_-Evenly_


	3. Chapter 3: Satoshi

**Of the Nameless**

 **Chapter 3:** Satoshi

* * *

"Yo, yo," Satoshi drawled, the screen he was holding casting an eerie glow on his face, "What's up with this, huh?" He gestured lightly, and the two men standing on either side of him leaned in to see their boss's phones.

"The Varia? So what," one muttered, scoffing and putting his cigarette to his mouth once again, "not like they're coming for us or anything, right? Right?" he said again, with more worry. Their boss blew a raspberry and rose,

walking to the body, limping slumping forward and with it's head in a bucket of water. With a simple hand movement, Satoshi motioned for the man standing beside the corpse to release his hand from the back of its head.

"Disappointing," Satoshi muttered, kicking the body lightly and watching listlessly as it slumped over, "that you couldn't hold your breath for that long. But not disappointing enough to put me out of this good mood."

Satoshi hummed, walking away from the recently deceased, not even bothering to motion for his men to follow; his eyes focused on his screen, skimming through the information, pictures, that he would surely be quick to pass on,

Not that she didn't already know about this, for sure. She was the best informant after all, and he had helped her achieve that title.

"The Varia," he mused, "has got its boss back, which means that bitch is going to be stirring up some trouble real soon. So," he said, turning his head to his men, waiting on one to open the door of the car for him (leaving the abandoned warehouse behind, only filled with the dead),

"We should hurry and get a good fucking seat, yeah?"

* * *

"So you're the bitch that's been – "

Satoshi stopped dead, seeing the women in front of him, fully. Rage-filled, determined eyes met his, blood dribbling down from her wounded lips, bruises blossoming across most of her face, other injuries littering her body, a cheap prosthetic arm already shattered and littering the ground, and her only other prosthetic arm resting protectively in front of her stomach.

He moved his hand quickly after his initial shock, grabbing the cigarette before it fell completely out of his mouth. Far too calmly, he turned to the men around him, acknowledging the man to his right:

"You responsible for this?" he asked lowly, hand thrumming the handle of the gun at his hip, caressed between his skin and the jeans her wore.

"Yes, boss, we found her sneaking ar-"

And Satoshi pressed the barrel of the gun into the man's mouth, causing an awful choking sound before the gunshot. He flicked the blood and saliva from his weapon before storing it in its usual place. The other men around him (faithful subordinates, shocked) stiffened as he leaned down, on level with the beaten woman.

"Sorry about that, Baby," he addressed her, genuinely, "What they did was fucking disgraceful, and doesn't reflect me. Fucking honest," he said with a drag of cigarette, "Clearly, you're not in a state to be beaten by some fucking assholes. But either way, I'mma let you scram, and tell you not to come around my territory again, hear?"

The woman sneered and spat to the ground, a light pink color. Sharp eyes shifted back to him, and he felt a surge of apprehension; an animal trapped in front of him, and him acting as an idiotic spectator, not even bars between them to protect him.

He grinned however, this notion exciting him; he spoke again:

"I'm guessing you came here for a reason then, and didn't just get caught on the wrong side of the neighborhood?"

"I'm useful, okay motherfucker?" she seethed, slightly surprising him (in her state, one that many would call fragile, she seems unaware of this, or at least venomously denying it), "You get to use me, and I get to use you."

"And what exactly am I gonna use your for, babe?" Satoshi asked her haughtily, "I'm looking for bruisers if anything, not fucking whores."

She spat in his face suddenly, and his hand twitched to go for his gun. But he resolved himself, lifting a slow hand to wipe the saliva (still stained with her blood, but he supposed that was his men's fault and not hers) from his face.

"If we're going to be working together," she told him, confident and cold, "then you better learn fucking fast not to use that kind of language around me."

"You seem pretty confident that I'mma put you on the pay roll," he said, his voice just as chill, "What exactly do you have that I need, huh?"

She smiled, more of a baring of teeth than anything, and responded with far too much grace:

"information. You're talking to the best damn informant after all."

* * *

Softly, the smoke drifted from his cigarette, the tendrils lit only by the soft light of the moon. And with that same light, his eyes moved through the room, until landing on the woman laying in the bed he was sitting on the edge on; her bare body draped with the thin covers of the bed, clinging to her skin. Her arm moved, sliding far too easily from the sticky sheets;

He recalled the models before these arms, their clumsiness, their obviousness, not flesh, not human, robotic and only that. But now? If one didn't know what to look for, both of her prosthetic arms could pass for flesh,

But anyone that shared any intimacy with this women knew they weren't.

She lifted her hand, staring at it, as if having the same thoughts as Satoshi. He spoke first.

"You really can't feel anything?" he asked before taking another drag, twilling more tendrils into the air of the motel room.

"Physically or emotionally?" she said dryly. He scoffed. Another silence. He spoke.

"You think about him every time?"

"You jealous?" she shot back immediately.

"Just a little disappointed that we'll never be anything more than fuck buddies," he replied with humor, allowing his body to fall back onto the bed completely. Silence, then,

"You think about her a lot?"

Gently, she took the cigarette from his fingers, lifting it to her plump lips, breathing in, then breathing out smoke. His eyes went to the tattoo on her stomach, almost the same as his on his arm.

"Always."

* * *

Satoshi waited, alone for once, watching as the woman stepped from the plane. Instead of her usual attire, she wore rather plain clothes, her dyed hair in a messy bun, piled on top of her head, her face bared, no makeup, showing tired eyes and ashy skin, usual deepened and tanned and brimming with confidence. Her eyes were even duller, and it almost struck Satoshi with empathy and slight panic, not used to not seeing her usual spitfire evident in her look.

She had always presented herself as strong to Satoshi, and any other person she met. But now? She was anything but.

He didn't even have to ask if she did it, as there was nothing in her arms as she stepped out and towards him,

And immediately he caught her, enveloping her as she fell into him. He felt the wetness of her tears on his chest,

And he allowed her to mourn.

* * *

"Man," Satoshi said, drawing out the word as the other man walked in, red eyes immediately snapping to dark brown. His second in command, ever faithful and with sword drawn always (attached to his hand), followed as well, and simply stood as his boss dropped lazily and heavily into the chair at the opposite end of the table.

"Have I been dying to meet you," Satoshi continued, throwing his feet onto the table. He grew somber, however, and relented, "but I do wish it was under different circumstances, you feel?"

"You said," Xanxus drawled, narrowing his eyes, "that you had important information about her?"

"Hell yeah, but I'll tell you now that your man already knows some of the shit I do," and red eyes snapped to his right; Squalo stiffened, but met his boss's eyes. A flurry of rage, and then its quelling. Xanxus looked back to Satoshi.

"You trying to get shot, scum?"

"Opposite," Satoshi said with a grin, "Just spreading the word, my man. But your guy don't know everything. After all, I got the numbers you need," he finished bringing a folded wad out of his pocket, and skillfully sliding it across the table. Xanxus caught it, and unfolded it immediately with his one arm.

Revealing a page with an address and town scribbled messily across it, along with a distressed, folded-many-times picture. Briefly, he allowed his fingers to trace across the tattoo shown, almost curiously. And then he snapped his eyes up, once again meeting Satoshi's.

"Do I get a thanks?" the man said teasingly. Xanxus scowled, grabbing the papers and then rising.

"Fuck off."

Before storming out of the room, Squalo on his heels per usual. Satoshi laughed, loud enough for it to be heard even after the door was slammed shut. The laugh dwelled into a content hum, before his happiness sputtered out completely.

"Damn. What a lovely fucking pair they would have made, huh?"

* * *

 _AN:_

 _I may have said this earlier, but I'm definitely having fun not sticking to a linear time line for this. Whoo! This chapter really sets up more of her relationship with Satoshi? Who, by the way, is totally based off the character of the same name from Michiko et Hatchin (I even put a pretty obvious nod in here to something that happens in the show if anyone picks up on it). But a pretty slow chapter besides that? Xanxus's chapter is next, so there's going to be a lot more content out of that one, and things that will clear up. Whoo!_

 _I hesitate to say this (because I feel like as soon as I say it, I prove myself wrong), but this should be a relatively short story? Especially since, if anything, this is actually acts more as a prequel for another story that will come after this. That being said, there should really only be two long chapters in this? But I'm enjoying this shorter format for now. But watch me prove myself wrong. After all, this is how WHMTH started out, and look at it now._

 _Thanks for all the reviews, follows, and favorites!_

 _-Evenly_


End file.
